by Lucy Dillon
Nick looked at her as if she’d put something into words that he’d been thinking himself. ‘I do. I don’t want to lose that in the renovation. The fact that people have lived here before us.’
‘You won’t,’ said Gina, and glanced down at the eggs. ‘Is this what you do?’ she asked, before the conversation got any more personal. ‘Egg photography?’
‘I usually do people.’
‘What? Weddings?’
‘God, no. I’d rather do eggs than weddings. Portraits. I was a news photographer originally.’ The camera started clicking again. ‘Spent ten years in London working for The Times, when they still had lots of staffers, couple of years freelancing in New York when Amanda was working there. I did a bit of food photography, bit of PR fluff . . . You know. You do what comes up. Some days it’s MPs, others it’s eggs.’
‘I’ve never met a photographer before.’
‘Well, we’re just regular people, despite what you might read in the papers.’
She took a side glance at Nick, close-shaven and clean, in his jeans and loose blue shirt. His feet were still bare, tanned and smooth. Beach feet. Pretty brave on a building site.
‘You might want to put some shoes on,’ she said. ‘Speaking as your project manager. Lorcan’ll bill you for the time it takes to drive you to the surgery in town when you stand on one of his handmade renovation nails.’
‘Good point. Let me just finish this.’ Nick pulled a shutter half across the big kitchen window and made a channel of light fall on Gina’s hands. It threw shadows across her fingers; she’d never looked so closely at her hands before or noticed the tiny lines under lines, like the hatching on a banknote, the soft pads of flesh. ‘Sorry it’s so dull. Won’t be long.’
‘It’s fine. It’s quite . . . relaxing,’ she added, because it was. Something about the shape of the eggs, the light, the stillness had completely dissipated the shock of Stuart’s text.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Let it go. Let it be just another thing you’re handing over to someone else, like the juicer.
Silence spread between them, knitting together her stillness with his precise, economical movements, all around the eggs. Gina had the unusual sensation of floating in the moment, just enjoying the simple beauty of three fresh eggs. Their colour, their strength. Their satisfying smoothness.
I should say something, she thought. This is too weird. I didn’t come here to have some kind of out-of-body experience.
‘I’m sorry . . . about . . . earlier.’ She stumbled over the words.
‘Don’t be. I hope I didn’t interrupt some bad news.’ Nick carefully raised her cupped hands a few millimetres and turned them towards the light. His touch was soft but firm, and made her feel part of the image, as much as the eggs.
‘Not really. I got a text that wasn’t meant for me.’
‘From someone you know?’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Gina, bitterly. Her brain was so relaxed that the words slipped out. ‘Funny how you only find out how romantic your exes are after you split up, eh?’
As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t know this man. He was like her friend, the way he spoke, the way they seemed to have things in common, but he wasn’t her friend.
‘It’s surprising the number of things you find out about people just after you split up,’ he said evenly, without taking his eye from the viewfinder. ‘Sometimes you think, God, if you’d been like that six months ago . . . But then people change all the time.’
Gina didn’t reply. She felt the mood between them balancing on an edge: one more comment would tip things into overshare. Just as she could smash the eggs with one tiny squeeze, she could completely screw up this very, very important contract with one more comment.
She bit her lip, hard.
Nick took a few more photos even though she couldn’t tell what difference, if any, he was picking up, then finished. ‘There, all done.’
He put the camera down and removed the eggs from Gina’s hands. She rubbed them together to dispel the ghostly sense that lingered on them.
‘Thanks for doing that.’ His tone had gone back to normal. ‘I don’t suppose I can persuade you to put some rings and a bracelet on for me? She’s sent over some really nice engagement-type ones, lovely little diamonds that you—’
Gina opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Nick flinched, and looked cross with himself. ‘Oh, shit, no, I’m sorry. That was really tactless. I have no idea how that even came out of my mouth. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Really.’
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Nick gestured towards the kettle, and she nodded. A quick cup of tea wouldn’t hurt. It would reset the mood. Then straight back to business, with the measurements and the windows. Her eye hunted around for distractions.
‘I didn’t know you could still get Polaroids,’ she said, seeing the plastic camera on the table.
‘You can’t. Well, you can get new versions, but that’s an original.’ Nick was over by the counter; she could hear him opening and closing tins. ‘Do you know how much film costs for that thing?’
‘Er . . . a fiver?’
‘Forty quid a pack. If you can find it. They don’t make it any more.’
‘What? Really?’ Gina looked at the camera with new respect. It was an actual antique. ‘So why do you use it?’ she asked, over the sound of the boiling kettle.
‘I like to make sure I’ve got the shot exactly right before I start shooting. And the Polaroid makes me concentrate on what’s actually there, not what I can put in later.’
Nick wandered back and put the mug in front of her. Gina realised he hadn’t asked her what she wanted to drink. She peered into the mug. Peppermint tea.
‘Calming,’ he said, seeing her expression. ‘And also ideal for when your builders have finished off the last of the milk. That’s one of the few things I learned from the London project.’
She sipped it. It was too hot but it was actually exactly what she wanted. Green and fresh. She reached for the Polaroid camera, which was bringing back some vivid memories. ‘My friend used to have one of these.’ There’d been a time when every party at Naomi’s house had been a blizzard of Polaroids. Naomi’s dressing-table was covered with browning photos Blu-tacked to the mirror, the white margins covered with biro scribble. ‘You always looked like you were having fun. Very difficult to look good, though.’
‘That’s why I like them. They capture a moment, just as it is. Digital’s like that in some ways, but you can always go back and improve it. Take stuff out, put stuff in. You can’t tamper with a Polaroid. It’s very raw.’
‘Too raw,’ said Gina. ‘My nose always looked huge in her photos.’
‘You were probably just too close to the camera,’ he replied. ‘That’s a photographer failure, not yours.’
She laughed and cupped her hands around the plain white mug. ‘It’s probably a good job most of them ended up in the bin.’
Nick sat down on the other side of the table and clicked a few keys on his laptop, which had been whirring gently in the background.
‘So, listen, about the cellars,’ said Gina. ‘I should maybe call your architect direct and ask him if he’s . . .’
‘Do you want to see the actual photos? Of the eggs.’ He gestured towards the laptop. ‘They’ve been downloading.’
‘Oh. No. It’s OK. I hate seeing photos of myself,’ she said quickly. ‘I never look like I do in my head.’
Nick’s mouth twitched. ‘I was only photographing your hands. You’re not one of those women who thinks even their hands look fat, are you?’
‘No.’ Gina put the tea down. She didn’t know how to express the jolt she felt inside when she saw a photograph that was supposed to be her, yet featured an older woman, with straighter hair and a sharpness about her face that she didn’t recognise as her own. The woman she expected to see – dark, curly-haired, diffident, angling her stance to hide her thick wa
ist – wasn’t there. An almost-twin stranger was in her place. An actress who looked a bit like the original character, but not quite.
‘Let’s see, then,’ she said, not wanting to have to explain all that to Nick, and he turned the laptop towards her.
It didn’t look immediately like a pair of cupped hands. At first glance, the three perfect eggs seemed to be held in a textured nest, composed of hundreds of greys, the fine etching pushing the smoothness of the eggs into focus. It was simple but striking, the strength of the eggs and their dormant potential glowing in the centre of the screen, like something from a myth.
‘Or . . .’ Nick slid his finger around the track pad and a different image flashed up, this time with her hands as the centre of the photograph, almost religious-looking, lifting the three eggs up to the viewer like an offering. Again, Gina wouldn’t have recognised her hands, but for an entirely different reason. They were pale and long, and the light had bleached out any lines so they resembled a marble effigy’s, folded quietly over a sleeping chest.
They’re beautiful, she thought, surprised, and glanced down at the hands resting on the table by the mug. They weren’t actually in bad condition at the moment, but the ones in the photo didn’t look like hers. They were elegant but powerful, the hands of a more dramatic woman, even without seeing her face. A saint. A young woman. An actress.
How could hands look so different?
‘Or . . .’ Nick fiddled with the settings, making her hands paler, playing with the contrast of the eggs, and suddenly Gina didn’t want to see any more. She didn’t know what it was, the ease with which he was changing her, the detachment of his observation. Or maybe that the mood wasn’t quite what it had been half an hour ago. The sadness had returned.
It was as if a spell had worn off, and she wanted to go somewhere and cry. Cry properly, this time.
‘They’re lovely,’ she said, reaching for her bag. ‘Um, I’ve got to get back to the office, actually.’
‘What?’ Nick looked up, confused. ‘I thought we were going to talk about the cellar. Did I say something? Was it when I mentioned home-brew? That was a joke.’
‘No, I just . . . I should call the architect directly and explain the situation.’ It came out wrong, too brusque, and she felt bad. ‘You’re busy, and there’s some other paperwork I can be getting on with. Better than Chinese whispers.’
Nick scrutinised her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Gina glanced down at her hands. ‘Sorry, I don’t know what it was. Something about my hands obviously freaks me out.’
My wedding ring, she thought. It was seeing that dint in my hand where my rings were, and now aren’t.
She shouldered her bag and gathered up her notebook from the table.
‘Here.’ Nick touched her on the shoulder and she turned. He had something in his hand: the Polaroid. ‘Would you like this?’ he asked. ‘It’s actually rather beautiful, in that little square.’
Gina looked at the pearly eggs, cupped in her hands. It was beautiful. She could see it on the white wall in her flat, like a miniature.
Nick smiled. ‘Consider it your model fee?’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and put it into her bag.
Chapter Nine
ITEM: a pair of cats’ eye sunglasses
Derbyshire, September 2007
Stuart’s back is sweating in the shape of a heart. One large damp heart forming in the top centre of his orange Lycra T-shirt.
Which is ironic, because hearts are the last thing on Gina’s mind. Instead, she thinks, watching it grow larger and darker as they struggle up the fourth hill of the morning, I’d like to punch him in that exact spot. Bloody cycling holidays. Is he saying I’m fat? Or is courting cardiac arrest really his idea of my idea of a good time?
This is not what Gina had in mind when Stuart announced that he was sweeping her off for his birthday weekend. She’d offered to arrange it for him, thinking of Rome (he loves the bloodthirsty TV miniseries of the same name; she loves art and coffee), but Stuart insisted on doing it himself. ‘It’s going to be perfect,’ he assured her. ‘You’ll love it.’ It is perfect – for him. The B&B they’re staying in even does organic full English breakfasts.
Gina thinks she should have guessed not to pack her bikini when Stuart told her to bring suncream but didn’t mention her passport. Still, she notes, already reordering today into a hilarious anecdote about her optimistic treat of a new pair of sunglasses that’ll make Naomi laugh next weekend, at least the passport’s in my bag. I can still make a break for it and go to Rome. How long would it take me to cycle to Manchester airport from here?
Gina eyes Stuart’s muscular back, and her stroppiness melts a bit. Naomi would point out, once she’d stopped laughing, that men like Stuart aren’t mind-readers. She should have told him Rome was what she wanted. Not outright, but maybe by leaving a few brochures out. Getting a Rough Guide to Rome. Dressing up in a bed-sheet toga.
But Stuart wouldn’t have got the toga. He’d have wondered what she was doing with the laundry.
‘Come on!’ yells Stuart. ‘Last push!’
A line of cars has been trailing up the hill behind them, the drivers’ resentment boring into Gina’s back like Xenon headlights. She can imagine what they’re saying about them, Stuart in his cycling shorts and her with her brand-new helmet rammed awkwardly on top of her corkscrewing curls.
She forces herself to think of something else, just to get to the top of the hill. Naomi’s official engagement party invite arrived before they left. What’s she going to wear for that? The blue dress Stu likes? Something new? How much weight can she lose in four weeks?
Gina half regrets telling her mum Naomi’s news: Janet has stopped hinting that Gina should think about settling down and has moved on to telling her direct. She’s twenty-seven now, she shouldn’t hang about. Tick-tock. Men like Stuart don’t hang around for ever.
Burning lungs aside, Gina doesn’t feel done with her twenties yet. Her life doesn’t seem to have passed through any significant starting gate into proper adulthood, and yet all around her, friends are hurtling into premature middle age like lemmings. Baby announcements in the paper, everyone buying houses, the weddings of her few uni friends and, most recently, her first grey hair, found this morning in the unforgiving B&B mirror.
Her brain automatically calculates the numbers: if her dad were still alive, he’d be fifty-six this year. Terry, fifty-eight. Kit, thirty-one next month.
Thirty-one. Gina pokes the sore spot, pretending she’s distracting herself from her aching calves. Married? Probably. With children? Two blond children with golden limbs and a cool taste in music and baby love-beads.
No. Probably not children.
The taste of this morning’s fried breakfast rises up the back of Gina’s throat. Baked beans, bacon, tomato and a sour sense of her own life disappearing down a different track, out of sight, while she goes on cycling holidays in Derbyshire instead of driving across Death Valley in a convertible.
A car honks behind her, then another, as if in psychic agreement, and Gina jumps so hard her foot slips off the pedal.
Mercifully, at that exact moment Stuart swings out his left arm and indicates that they should pull over at the panoramic viewing spot ahead. Gina finds a final shred of energy to reach the lay-by and tries not to look as the cars stream past them, back-seat passengers gawping. Her legs are burning. Only dignity stops her bending over and gasping for air like a landed salmon.
I need to get fitter, she thinks, staring at Stuart’s lean thighs.
‘There!’ He offers her his water-bottle, gesturing over the rolling Derbyshire countryside with the other hand. He’s not even panting, and the faint sheen of sweat on his tanned brow makes him look like an Olympic rower. Something heroic, anyway. ‘Isn’t that worth the climb?’
Gina wants to say, yes, it’s beautiful, but the sweat running into her eyes has mingled with her suncream and is stinging. She takes off
her beautiful Sophia Loren sunglasses and wipes it away.
‘Are you all right, Gee?’ says Stuart, peering more closely.
No. I’m not all right, Gina roars in her head. I’m worn out. I’ve been working solidly for seven weeks without a break because my boss is waging war on unauthorised double glazing and I’d rather have spent the weekend asleep at home, or at the very least at a spa hotel in York drinking cocktails, and I’ll be thirty before I know it and we still haven’t discussed what’s happening when our lease runs out at the end of October . . . ‘I’m fine,’ she says, and takes a swig of water.
Water. Who knew it could be so delicious?
‘Good.’ Stuart smiles and his face is kind. ‘You’ve done really well today, considering you don’t cycle much.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Look, um, there’s something I want to say.’
‘Is it to do with my outfit? Because if you’d told me to pack gym kit I’d have . . .’
‘No, it’s not that.’ He swallows. ‘It’s about us.’
Her stomach plunges. Us. He’s going to finish it, she thinks. He dragged me up a hill, and got me so breathless I won’t be able to cause a scene.
‘Gina . . .’ Stuart clears his throat and – oh my God – he takes her hand in his.
Gina’s heart thuds in a different fast pattern. For the first time in ages, she really has no idea what Stuart’s going to do. The whole point of Stuart is that everything is beautifully smooth and predictable. Like East Anglia. You can see things coming from miles away with Stuart. Her throat feels tight as he fumbles in the pannier on his bike.
No, thinks Gina. Surely not.
He drops to one knee, then lifts his face up to her with unexpected seriousness, and with the countryside spread around him, like a puckered green cloak, dotted with stone churches and toy-box farms, he looks like a tousle-haired landowner from a Gainsborough portrait.